First Name Basis
by currentlywriting
Summary: Effie's hands are always cold, and somehow Haymitch has only just noticed. Hayffie! Fluffy little idea that might turn into a longer story! M for language & ever-so-slightly inappropriate scenarios ;)
1. Chapter 1

The first time he found herself in her room, it had been an accident. A stumble down the wrong corridor, a wrong button slammed into the wall with a lazy fist, and then the feeling of uncomfortably plush carpet under his bare feet.

"Smells funny," Haymitch Abernathy grumbled, blinking hard and scrubbing at his face with the back of his hand.

"It smells _clean_ ," came a clipped voice from the bed in the centre of the room, and Haymitch peered hazily at the figure sitting awkwardly in it.

"I didn't order company, sorry darling," he chuckled, lurching over to the sofa in the corner and flinging himself ungraciously into it, tugging at his shoelaces.

"Neither did I," said the person. "You're in the wrong room, Mr Abernathy."

"Oh," Haymitch laughed, squinting drunkenly at the woman in the bed. "Effie! Effie Effie Effie. Didn't recognise you without the… hair stuff."

"Well, quite," Effie said sharply, clutching the white silk sheets up to her chin to hide her pink satin camisole and wishing she had a free hand to self-consciously touch her blonde curls which until a few moments ago had hidden underneath a particularly fluffy candyfloss pink wig. "Now, if you could _possibly_ leave, that would be marvellous. I'll see you in the morning, when you're sober."

"'M never sober," Haymitch chuckled, "sorry, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that," Effie said irritably. "Out you go, Mr Abernathy."

Abandoning his shoes beside Effie's plush sofa, Haymitch stood up, swaying slightly.

"Sorry," he said again, and there was a hint of something sincere in his watering grey eyes. He turned to leave and crashed into a small table, stubbing his toe, rattling several little jewellery boxes and knocking what looked like a photo album to the floor for good measure.

"I got it, I got it, I got it," he muttered to himself, wincing at the noise and waving his hand towards Effie in what he hoped was a soothing motion, despite her agitated sigh as she scrambled to get out of bed and across the room, bending to pick up the album before he did.

"Get out," Effie said, not too unkindly. "Go and get some sleep."

She put a cool hand on his arm and steered him towards the door.

"Effie," Haymitch whispered, suddenly serious. His eyes focused on her, grey boring into blue.

"Haymitch?" she asked, acutely and uncomfortably aware that her voice had dropped to match the volume of his. Her nails tightened imperceptively on his arm as she realised she'd used his first name. _Quite by accident,_ she assured herself. _He won't remember anyway._

Effie made it a point to call Haymitch 'Mr Abernathy' since he'd tripped headlong off the stage at the District 12 reaping. A reminder, she hoped, for him to behave with some sort of decorum.

Haymitch leaned close to her face, interrupting her reverie, and Effie had the good grace not to wrinkle her nose at the scent of alcohol on his breath. His lips almost brushed her ear, his forehead dropped to almost rest on her bare shoulder, and she shivered, her skin prickling although he technically was hardly touching her.

"What is it?" she asked, as Haymitch froze. "What's the matter?"

"I don't remember where my room is."


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you for reading the first part of this fic! It marks my tentative return to writing as a whole (after being thoroughly uninspired by English Literature at college and vowing never to write for pleasure ever again..!). Enjoy!_

* * *

He found himself taking a deep breath before opening the sliding door to the breakfast car that morning, unsure whether she'd be inside already, fussing over Katniss (she had taken to doing the girls hair while she ate, much to Katniss' annoyance – Haymitch had laughed uproariously when Effie cheerfully commented that Katniss looked like a Shetland pony in the mornings).

She wasn't there.

Head a little clearer than he'd like, Haymitch slumped down at a table and poured himself a drink, ignoring a pointed stare from Peeta, who, despite his irritatingly angelic appearance, could throw a dirty look like nobody's business.

"What?" Haymitch snapped eventually, once he'd downed his drink and Peeta's glare had turned into awkward shuffling and coughing.

"I saw you last night," Peeta began, his hands shaking. Clearly he'd been working himself up to this little outburst. "Don't you think you ought to be _helping_ us, instead of… instead of drinking and sneaking off and getting _laid?"_

From the blush staining the boy's face and the octave his voice had leapt up, he'd never used the phrase "getting laid" in his life, but his brown eyes were firmly fixed on Haymitch and so he figured he at least owed him a partial explanation – after he'd roared with laughter at his awkwardness, of course.

"Drinking, yes," Haymitch said. "Sneaking off, yes, I guess I do that. Katniss is miserable, and no offence, but you're boring, and I already helped you – I told you to stay alive. Getting laid?"  
He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, pouring another drink. "I wish."

"I saw you!" Peeta insisted. "You and Effie were together in the corridor last night."

An unwelcome surge of something that had nothing to do with the alcohol rumbled in Haymitch's chest. The walk back to his bedroom with Effie was the one part of the night that he remembered with uncomfortable clarity – her cool hand on his arm as she guided him slowly along the corridor to his bedroom; the brief brush of her fingers on his forehead as she tucked a rogue strand of hair back from his face. She had left him a glass of water on his nightstand.

Haymitch snorted rudely, suddenly much more annoyed than he had any right to be. "If you think I'd put my dick in that peacock you're stupider than you look," he said brashly, and Peeta's mouth dropped open, mortally offended.

"Jesus, Peeta," Haymitch grumbled, and found he couldn't stop. "A man's gotta have principles. I don't want to fuck a paint box. I was wrecked. She was taking me back to my room, that's all."

Peeta was blushing furiously now, looking at his glass of orange juice as if he wished he could drown in it. "Sorry," he muttered, "it just looked like-"

"It didn't look like anything other than what it was," came a faux-cheerful chirp from the doorway, and Haymitch realised with another horrible lurch in his stomach that Effie had overheard the last part of their conversation.

"I was merely helping Mr Abernathy get back to his room," Effie continued, sliding the door of the car closed with her hip, "as he was entirely too useless and intoxicated to find his way back unaided."

Haymitch hoped she'd storm out in a rage so he didn't have to look at her. There was an uncomfortable, thick silence punctuated only by Effie determinedly humming a little tune as she picked at the breakfast table. Peeta now looked like he wished his juice were poisoned.

"Could you pass me a glass, please, Mr Abernathy?" Effie asked, all politeness and charm.

Without meeting her eyes– he _couldn't_ – Haymitch passed her a small cut crystal glass.

"Thank you," Effie chirruped. She placed the glass none-too-gently on a fussy little tray along with her breakfast ( _fruit,_ Haymitch noted, _she didn't even go for the pain au chocolats_ ) and walked smartly out of the breakfast car.

"Haymitch, do you think she heard -" Peeta started, aghast, but Haymitch lifted a hand.

"She won't be offended," he said quickly, not daring to believe that he was lying. "Capitol types can't feel such a complex emotion; it would blow their fucking heads off."

"I'm sure it would!"

Effie was back already, a grumpy, yawning Katniss in tow along with her breakfast tray.

Peeta's face was a picture.

"You seem to have very little regard for the Capitol," Effie mused, casually guiding Katniss to a burgundy velvet seat and pouring her a glass of something bright pink. Katniss took the glass moodily, although she looked up with some interest as the atmosphere grew decidedly frostier.

"Yeah, well, everyone in the Capitol… everyone is -" Haymitch gestured uncomfortably, finding himself looking desperately at Peeta as if the boy would come up with some diplomatic solution to what was probably one of the most awkward moments of Haymitch's life.

"A peacock?" Effie suggested, eyes cold. Underneath her makeup – all peach tones this morning – her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone a little too brightly as she fastened a ribbon to the end of Katniss' braid.  
"Drink up," she almost snapped, and Katniss smirked into her glass.


	3. Chapter 3

They didn't speak for the rest of the day, save a few uncomfortably polite exchanges. In the few days that followed, she stopped speaking directly to him at all.

"Peeta, would you ask Mr Abernathy if he requires anything else from the kitchens?" Effie asked over dinner one night, at which Peeta looked nervously across the table to Haymitch and repeated her question.

"Would you please tell _Miss Trinket_ ," Haymitch began, irritably, but Katniss chuckling suddenly into her orange chicken stopped him in his tracks. It was a rare sound – Katniss did a lot of secretive crying and shouting and throwing things about, but laughter wasn't something she seemed too familiar with.

"What?" he snarled, turning his anger onto her. It was easier, he thought; Katniss was a lot more abrasive and would insult him with as much gusto as he insulted her. She wouldn't dance around the awkwardness with forced politeness and cold eyes that made his chest feel icy.

Katniss laughed again, nudging Peeta in the ribs. "You're right," was all she said.  
Peeta tried to hide his smirk with his fork, but soon the tributes' shoulders were shaking with laughter and Haymitch had had enough.

He flung his fork at Katniss, who still howled with laughter, splattering her with orange chicken, and stomped out of the room.

He had no trouble finding his bedroom now – the path down the corridor was etched into his brain, along with the ghost of Effie's hand on his arm.  
"Pull yourself together, Haymitch," he grumbled, pressing the button to unlock his room with more force than absolutely necessary.

Avoiding the piles of laundry and empty glass bottles on his floor – he wouldn't allow the Avox woman to clean his room, it just felt _weird_ \- he stomped to the bed and flung himself down face first, groaning into his pillow. He was angry, yes – sick of the kids and the train and the whole debacle that he was sure awaited them in the Capitol. He was sick of orange chicken and the stupid fancy little vegetables served with every meal. He was sick of the spark of anticipation he had begun feeling in the morning waiting for Effie to enter the breakfast car.

"Mr Abernathy?" came a voice from the doorway, and Haymitch stiffened, jumping upright and knocking off the glass of water Effie had placed carefully on his bedside table the night before. He jerked, reaching clumsily, and bit back a gasp when he sliced his palm on the shattered glass.

"What?" he growled, glaring at Effie – because of course it was her; of course she had seen him hurt himself; of course she would probably notice the angry tears that had sprung into his eyes without any warning whatsoever. She started towards him, a soft expression melting the steely one she had greeted him with.

"Don't be hideous," she warned calmly, neatly sidestepping the mess all over the floor and taking his cut hand in hers, turning it over gently. "You might need stitches."

"Fuck that," he muttered, yanking his hand away and wiping the blood on his shirt.

"Language," Effie said, and he rolled his eyes. "You'll ruin that shirt."

"Don't care," Haymitch said petulantly. He sank down to sit on the end of the bed, surreptitiously wiping away the fresh blood on his sheets. "What do you want, Trinket?"

"Effie," Effie said, sighing in defeat. "I've always hated my surname."

"It's pretty fucking ridiculous."

"Language," Effie said automatically.

"I'm not Katniss," Haymitch said. "You can't tell me what to say."

"I can't tell her what to say either," Effie pointed out, taking his hand again and pulling him gently to his feet.

"Your hands are always cold," Haymitch said without thinking, as Effie led him into the grimy bathroom.

She hummed noncommittally as she ran warm water over his skin. "I know why they were laughing," she said lightly, clearly trying to distract him from the beads of blood that were dripping off his wrist and onto the bathroom floor. She fished around unsuccessfully for a bandage in the cabinet beside his sink. She pursed her lips, unsatisfied, and unwound the thick baby-pink ribbon that had served as a belt for that days outfit, wrapping it tightly around his hand.

"Effie," Haymitch said, and he hoped he wasn't imagining the little smile that played on the corner of her mouth. "Don't," he continued, as she fussed with the ribbon. "I know how important that stuff is to you. Clothes, and hair stuff."

"Hair stuff," Effie scoffed, but it was good natured. "I knew you'd said something ridiculous about my hair."

"My little midnight visit playing on your mind, sweetheart?" Haymitch asked, and the snarky edge he'd hoped to inject into his voice fell flat.

"It was more like three A.M," Effie corrected him, leaning against the sink, "and yes, in a way."

He hadn't expected that.

"As I said, I know why they were laughing," Effie said, grinning unexpectedly, showing off rows of sparkling white teeth.

"Let me guess, they think we're fucking," Haymitch grumbled, and Effie laughed out loud – a real laugh, Haymitch guessed, not the affected one that he'd heard too many times already and made him want to slap her. Her camera laugh.

"Yes," she admitted, drying her hands. "I heard them discussing it last night. Peeta's room is a few doors down from mine."

"So he's getting midnight visits of his own," Haymitch chuckled, "and he has the cheek to yell at _me_ for it. Hear anything else?" he added suggestively, and felt his skin prickle as Effie laughed again and pushed him lightly in the stomach back into his bedroom.

"Don't be revolting; they're _children_ ," she said, and then looked around the room, her snub nose wrinkling slightly. "Speaking of revolting," she murmured, "shall I send for someone to clean this up?"

"No," Haymitch said quickly, his breath catching in his chest. "I'll… I'll do it myself. I don't want… the Avox-"

"You really don't like the Capitol," Effie said, and it wasn't a question. She sank down onto the chair beside his bed, rubbing her temples. Haymitch hovered awkwardly above her.

"No, I don't," he said, guarded. "Sorry, sweetheart."

"Stop calling me that," Effie said, her nose wrinkling again.

"Stop telling me what to say," he countered, smirking.

"I'm just doing my job, Mr Abernathy."

"Stop calling me Mr Abernathy."

"Stop calling me Miss Trinket."

"Why? Does it remind you you're not married?"

Without a word, Effie launched herself off the seat, slid her arms around his neck and pressed her lips against his, hard.

 _Not_ that he'd spent a great deal of time thinking about her lipstick and what it might taste like, he thought dimly, but it was sweeter than he expected. Her cool hands joined loosely behind his neck, nails brushing against his skin as she pressed herself against him. She felt tiny.

Effie broke the kiss and took a sudden step back, blue eyes uncertain.

"Haymitch," she began.

Haymitch's head was buzzing. His injured hand felt heavy. In fact, now he came to think of it, his whole arm felt heavy. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He looked down at his hand – bleeding freely through the now-stained ribbon - at the same time that Effie did, only half-registering the sudden flash of fear in her eyes as his own rolled back into his head and he passed out.


End file.
